if you love me, let me go (Newtmas)
by vanillaspork
Summary: Sanity is a strange thing. One second, it's there. The next second, it's gone, like someone pinching out a flame.


Sanity is a strange thing.

One second, it's there.

The next second, it's gone, like someone pinching out a flame.

And it only comes back when you're standing over bloody corpses, gore on your hands and your body on fire, leaving you to wonder if you killed those people because you can't remember shit.

It's a miracle that Newt even recognizes Tommy in that van through the badly damaged windows, the night heavy and dark.

But even through the pain that he's long grown numb to, the agony in his body and in his mind and in his badly bruised heart, his mind insists on remembering the boy's face.

Newt isn't sure whether it's a blessing or a curse.

Tommy gets out of the car, and Newt staggers back. He's terrified and furious and ashamed and regretful all at once, and he begins to feel that now-familiar cloud beginning to settle over his mind.

No, not now.

He can't snap while Tommy's standing right in front of him.

He tries, he tries. He tries to stay calm, to handle the situation as any sane man would.

But Newt's not a sane man. He's reaching the Gone quicker than ever, and Tommy's presence is not helping.

Newt barks out a laugh at something Tommy says, and he knows he's slipping away when his head involuntarily twitches, especially since he's pretty sure that his former best friend just offered to save him. Or at least try to save him— they both know that Newt is a lost cause.

He knows that he's lost control when he begins spitting words. Cruel, terrible words that fly from his tongue like knives aimed at Tommy's heart. Words that Newt never authorized to leave his shattered mind.

Inside, Newt is screaming, is trying to clamp a hand over his mouth, fighting to regain control. He wants to rip out his tongue, choke himself, anything to stop this horrible flood of words ejecting from his mouth. He's never felt more hopeless. He's never wanted death more. Not even when he realized the Maze was insolvable, or when Tommy disappeared with Brenda in the Scorch, or even when he found that he was not Immune.

Now, though, facing Tommy and watching him shrink back with hurt, Newt wishes someone would just snuff his life out already. Anything would be better than watching himself verbally destroy this boy, this poor boy who's been condemned to watch his best friend get reduced to this wild husk of a person. A Crank.

And then a glint of moonlight reflects off the metal handle of that pistol in Tommy's pocket.

A minuscule spark of hope kindles in his chest, but almost immediately gets swallowed by the venomous tide of inhuman anger and raw hatred for himself, for everything's that ever existed.

But still. Newt has to try.

He regains control of a fraction of his mind, just enough to hold him back from slashing Tommy's throat when he lets out a piercing scream and tackles him. Tommy is struggling, eyes glazed over with betrayal and panic and horror. Newt's control is suddenly gone, and he's doomed to watch himself inch closer and closer to killing Tommy.

"I should rip your eyes out," he hears himself snarl. He sees Tommy's breath hitch, and he momentarily stiffens before trying to break out of Newt's grip. "Teach you a lesson in stupidity. Why'd you come over here?" And then, out of nowhere, Newt's in control, and the words are his own. But the momentum of the fury is too strong for him to stop, and the only thing that changes is the amount of his personal despair. His words are different, yes, but they deliver a new bite. "You expected a bloody hug? Huh? A nice-sit down to talk about the good times in the Glade?"

Newt pauses, breathing in deeply, not noticing the rush of adrenaline, overflowing his body and spilling over in the form of burning tears. His mind is running as fast as his heart, if not faster, and soon he's confessing his suicide attempt to Tommy. The boy underneath him is pale, misery and dread fighting for dominance in his face.

His calf presses against Tommy's hip, and he feels the shape of fingers touching a stiff, metal shaft. He suddenly remembers the gun. Twisting, Newt grabs Tommy's wrist, eyes flooding over. His limbs already know what he wants, and he doesn't even have to consciously make the decision to force the gun to his forehead.

Now Tommy's really fighting, and the veins in his wrist press against Newt's palm as he tries to yank his hand away. But Newt's death wish overpowers the other boy's will, and his own grip is like iron. He will not let himself go another day without control, without his humanity, without a complete soul. Without Tommy.

His whole head is in chaos. One part of him is trying to overwhelm the other, rage and vengeful feelings attempting to smother the depression and solemn resolve. The only thing holding him in check, keeping the gun against his forehead, is the one feeling his heart will never forget.

Love.

And his heart, through the rapidly shifting emotions in his head, through the battling commands his mind is issuing out, through Newt's crazed demands for Tommy to kill him, cries out.

And Newt hears that cry.

He sucks in a breath when his mind abruptly clears, and everything goes silent. Newt stills, breathing heavily as he adjusts to the vacancy of the voices, the Flare. It's just him and Tommy, like it was in the beginning. No one's trying to force him to do anything anymore, no incurable disease making decisions for him. Whatever he's about to do, it's Newt's choice.

He knows what he wants. What he needs. What's best for everyone.

His body trembles as he lowers his head, his hand shaking. Then he looks up at Tommy, hoping his grief isn't as strong as he feels it to be.

Grief that his life couldn't be different.

Grief that he isn't Immune.

Grief that he couldn't have survived with Tommy, just like he always wanted.

The hand on Tommy's chest impulsively rises to touch the boy's dirty jaw, and Newt's glad that the brunette doesn't notice. All of Tommy's focus is on Newt's eyes, Newt's face, Newt's lips. So he certainly knows when Newt chokes out, "Please, Tommy. Please."  
All the emotion drains from the boy's face, and his eyes cloud over. They penetrate deep into Newt's soul, and as they stay there for a second that feels like an eternity, he knows that Tommy can see how badly he wants this.

However, Newt knows how deeply his true feelings are buried. Tommy will never know how much their friendship had meant to Newt, how much Newt had grown to love that shank, right from the moment he came out of the Box.

But Newt knows, and in the end, that's enough.

No recognition of that love flickers to life in those wide blue pupils, but it's just as well. Some things are better off not knowing.

The last thing Newt sees is a tear streaking through the grime on Tommy's face as he closes his eyes.

A gunshot echoes through his ears, but he never gets the chance to hear it.

Then the peace that he's been waiting for for far too long washes over him, and at long last, Newt rests.

Life is a strange thing.

One second, it's there.

The next second, it's gone, like someone pinching out a flame.

Of course, a bullet would do just fine.

And, unlike sanity, life will never come back.


End file.
